


Apostasy

by pxperboats



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst, Brutal Murder, Cannibalism, Crimes & Criminals, Dark Will Graham, Eventual Smut, M/M, Mafia Boss Hannibal Lecter, Manipulative Will Graham, Murder, Murder Husbands, Organized Crime, POV Will Graham, Possessive Hannibal Lecter, Power Dynamics, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Undercover, Will Graham Being Will Graham, what a surprise
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-15
Updated: 2019-06-05
Packaged: 2020-03-06 00:38:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18840055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pxperboats/pseuds/pxperboats
Summary: He felt a hand cup his chin before Hannibal tipped his head up, and he was forced to look up, unseeing. “Do not disappoint me, Will.”Hannibal Lecter, the head of the Chesapeake Company, a vicious yet intelligent crime syndicate, has taken an interest in Will Graham. As a new recruit, he should have been able to blend easily in, earning no favours with the omnipotent creature he now served. And yet, when he feels amber eyes upon his back, he knows that he was is distrusted or repulsive to the man he needs to please. But an oddity, an unknown. He is interesting. And that heedless curiosity could be the very thing to dethrone Hannibal Lecter.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> _Disclaimer: I do not own these characters. Respective rights go to Thomas Harris and NBC. I make no money from writing this._  
>     
> Firstly, thank you to my wonderful beta, [InsanelyWriteful](https://archiveofourown.org/users/InsanelyWriteful/pseuds/InsanelyWriteful) for sticking with this and helping me really get the characters right and plan my major events better than I could have with my messy brain. You're absolutely wonderful. 
> 
> This fic is set in an alternate universe, in which Hannibal runs an organisation that is something akin to the mafia or a crime syndicate, which he uses for his own purposes, which you shall find out should you read ahead. I try to research as best I can into the running of the mafia and crime syndicates but I concede that I may make some mistakes when talking about the structure of it. Hannibal being Hannibal would run his a little differently to people motivated by only money or greed. After all, I doubt many mob bosses are semi-openly cannibals. 
> 
> Now, with that out of the way— I hope you enjoy my strange, twisted creation!

The silence stretched, indefinite. Will was terrified.  
  
Silence was comforting, usually. Silence meant peace of mind, and peace of mind was something in which Will Graham was severely lacking. For that, he blamed the people he passed in the street and the strangers he did not know. They were so loud. Not loud like a train station at rush hour. Not loud like the smashing of a teacup on the floor. Loud like a thousand voices demanding blood, revealing the desires they’d never voice. It was _deafening._ Will, unfortunately, had their minds on full volume and was forced to listen, unwavering despite the horrors so vividly presented to him. The only time Will was afforded the luxury of silence was when he left the warmth and comfort of his house in the earliest hours of the day and stood in the river, line cast far out into the water. He was alone with his own thoughts then, and they were silent.  
  
Sat amongst the innards of Beverly’s car, he was alone with his thoughts and they were screaming.

Beverly—whom he’d once feared for her own blood-soaked history, regardless of how charismatic she was—noticed this. The report on her said it all, but Will knew he would have felt the darkness coming off her in waves whether he’d seen the file or not. Organ trafficker. The inside of the car blurring into the shapes of furniture from a target’s houses. Beverly standing over their body, gore hanging from every surface, revealing the viciousness she was capable of. Yet there she stood amidst a sea of mangled parts, cool and collected. A well-trained dog dragged back to her master by a harsh tug on a chain leash, digging into the skin of her neck until she bled as red as her victims. The corpses lit aflame around them; Will was sweating, able to feel the fire as though he were about to be consumed whole by it himself. Turned to ash like the victims, lost to the heat of the moment as Beverly was lost to the darkness she’d been thrust into. His hands shook, eyes giving a rapid blink as he could practically see all of her crimson history shimmering red before him. Hear the quiet but steady _drip, drip, drip_ of blood smattering to the ground, echoing the horrors she'd left in her wake. The horrors she’d been forced to witness, the same as her victims, everyone suffering from the actions of one higher power. He came back to himself, forcing the visions away, only to see her intense gaze trained on him. She must have smelt his fear like a bloodhound, or seen it in his frown.  
  
“You okay, Will?” She asked despite knowing the question only had one answer, and it would not be affirmative. Considering Will’s situation, there was no conceivable way he could be ‘okay’. He was walking, willingly, into the valley of death- into the gaping maw from which there would be no escape.  
  
“Yes,” Will lied. It was an answer Beverly expected and accepted.  
  
He heard shifting, but he could not see her, the blindfold tied tightly around his head. “I’m sorry for the precautions. The Chesapeake Company is… particular about their privacy. You’re lucky they don't make me drug the newest recruits anymore.” It was an attempt at humour Will could appreciate, and he gave a half-hearted smile.  
  
“At this point, I think I’d prefer to be unconscious. At least then, I’d be calm.” He considered tugging the fabric away from its position over his eyes and making the lame excuse that he wouldn’t know where he was anyway. He did not attempt to. Will Graham valued his life. When at a disadvantage, looking at the hunter in the face could be dangerous. Playing at being meek prey had its advantages. Flattered by the contrast of predator strength and false submission, the predator could provide Will a moment of retaliation. Enough time to tear out the throat of the hunter, like some angry animal or savage man.

There was silence for a time longer. Will considered, for a moment, asking Beverly to put on the radio—anything to fill the silence. He did not dare speak as she began twisting down alley’s and over the bumps of a country road. This was a familiar sensation. Distantly, he wondered if the boss of Baltimore’s infamous crime syndicate lived in a cabin, not unlike his own. It was comforting and chilling in equal measure. The Ripper, infamous for the mutilation of his infinite victims, could be more human than he would have the world believe. Will, nervous and showing emotion like an open wound, could be less human than he would have the world believe.  
  
The car jolted to a halt.  
  
_The_ men and women waiting outside the car did not do him the disservice of forcing him to stumble blind. They removed his blindfold with no added flourishes. To Will, this was as damning as the drop of a hammer, condemning him to be publicly hung, drawn and quartered if he did not comply. He would either walk away a made man, or he would not walk away from the house at all.

The modest yet expensive looking house sat on a cliff face, hanging off the very edge of the world. The decline was steep, and Will only had to close his eyes to see the bodies which were weighted down and thrown over the edge into the freezing depths below. Their only companions now were the sharks and the monsters in the unknowable depths. The ocean attacked the shore with all the might of the Romans and the tactics of the Greeks. Victory was in its nature. Across the horizon, the water was still and dark.  
  
Equally as black were the thick forests which surrounded the private retreat on every side, casting the house as a safe haven from the unknown world around it. But, Will knew better. Any number of predators could reside under the brush, weaving between the trees, but the real predators lay inside the false refuge. From the outside and from within, he felt opened up and exposed, as though someone was observing the very depths of his soul. It was a feeling he was not accustomed to since he was typically the closed off one looking in with everyone else wondering about him.

Beverly came to his side, leaning close and murmuring, “Be polite. If you’re not, expect the Boss to slit your throat. He’s fair, but he demands respect.” He knew her words to be true and could feel the sharp coldness of the blade across his neck. Will hesitated, panic-stricken for only a brief moment from how real and final it felt, much like the situation he was walking into, before giving a curt nod.

Led by a crowd of men he knew were far stronger than himself, Will stepped into the house. The first scent that assaulted him was pine and cinnamon; it was not at all what he’d expected the home of a mob boss to smell like. Rather, he presumed it would have stunk of liquid iron and alcohol. The place smelled almost . . . homey, sending Will back to multiple places at once. His home in Wolf Trap, with the fresh air only nature could provide. The smell of cinnamon-rich and thick in the air, some flicker of a childhood memory. Perhaps a neighbour making pies. What little they had on The Ripper to work from hadn’t indicated to Will that he would have such a home. Something that smelled sweet and welcoming. It almost seemed to contradict the man that Will had come to know through the evidence. Uncaring of his victims, treating them more like lesser beings than humans with families and friends and dreams. Cold, cruel and hauntingly detailed in his designs. Always making a statement, never letting a single thing go to waste. No, to waste would be a terrible thing indeed. _That_ would be the real horror to the man. Yet, his home smelled like that of a caretaker. Someone sensitive and thoughtful. Clearly, Will needed to give the man further review.  
  
The decor, decadent and tasteful as it was, seemed to grasp him by the jaw and turn his head, forceful and subtle in its design. Full of warm browns and mellow colours, crafted to lull the mind into an illusion of safety whilst the beast crept up from behind. Every surface was soft, in contrast to the harsh geometry of the exterior. Will was particularly chilled by the stag head, which gazed mutedly over the cliff, hung above the fireplace, unlit and cold. It exposed the man for the hunter he really was. Distinctly, it reminded him of the body of Cassie Boyle: a young and thriving small business owner who’d taken loans from unsavoury sources, and paid the price in full when she could not repay her debt in time. With a flutter of raven wings, and Will was transported back to the scene he’d seen only in photographs. Blood trailing down, demure, over the proud antlers, stark red against white. The Ripper always took pride in his work. It showed in every grisly scene Will had ever born witness to.  
  
Will was led to stand next to three other initiates, who seemed to be in silent conversation with their own patrons. Believing so confidently that they were the newest additions to the pride, eager to impress the lion and earn their stay. It was laughably obvious to Will that they were all gazelle, inevitably being lured towards a slaughter. Beverly stood by him, lips sealed. Will appreciated the quiet to form an accurate profile. His deductions would help him in front of The Ripper more than her words ever could.

_Pride, bordering on arrogance Superior, above all others. Elegant. Entirely other._

One by one the men down the line were escorted away.

_Intelligent. Well-versed in many subjects. Wisened to the world. Aware of the effect his actions have._

One by one, they did not return.

 _Violent. Righteous. Justified. Fair. Indiscriminate slaughter._  
  
Will heard no screams or shouts of pain.  
  
When the first man disappeared, Will had been twisting his hands in his expensive shirt, missing the safety of his glasses and the barrier they allowed him to build between himself and the outside world.

When the second man disappeared, Will’s torment became internal, hating the long interval between his arrival and his audience with the hunter himself. His breathing, though still fast and barely controlled, was beginning to slow to a comfortable rate.  
  
When the third man disappeared, Will’s hand’s were still and lax. He did not exude the same quiet confidence as the men and women who occupied the corners of the room. They looked upon him and saw a mouse, shy and weak, back easily broken with the firm kick of a boot. But a wolf behind them stalked with unknowable intent.  
  
In a moment, when three men escorted Will from the room, his fantasies of mice and wolves evaporated. He became dread and anticipation in equal measure. Through luxurious corridors, he was led until they reached a gilded door. Will imagined that the doors to heaven were not as luxurious, nor the gates of hell more foreboding. Before they proceeded through, one man picked up a small device. He waved it through the air, once, twice, three times, hovering just above Will’s clothes, scanning thoroughly for listening devices or wires.  
  
“He’s clean,” the man commented, and Will barely concealed a sigh of relief.

Once again, one of the men reached for a length of black fabric, and placed it around over his eyes, obscuring his vision until darkness reigned.

“Blindfolds must be incredibly in fashion recently,” came Will’s feeble attempt at a joke to break the tension.  
  
The thugs did not seem amused. “Hold your tongue, especially in front of the Boss, or he’ll be holding it for you. Remain silent and do as he asks and maybe you’ll fare better than the other three.”  
  
The steady drip of blood that mocked the beat of his heart returned. For a moment, Will was provided with the grotesque image of an elderly man’s supine body, flesh rent from him as he wailed and wailed, mouth held open in horror as blood gushed from it like an endless stream. A faceless monster with spines of bone and steel protruding from his back crouched over the victim, his prey, clutching a gory hunk of flesh in his fist in triumphant victory. The lump of meat seemed to wag and move on its own, almost as if it wanted to return to its former place but was unable to, trapped within the creature’s claws. Will did as he was bidden and held his tongue, for he did not wish to lose it.  
  
He was manhandled inside, forwards into what he could only assume was the centre of the room. He searched blindly, head whipping from side to side until he had determined he could perceive nothing from the action. He’d only succeeded in making a fool of himself. His hands clenched and unclenched at his side: nervous, but not fearful. The colourful sanguine stench that permeated the air around him suggested that, perhaps, he should be very afraid.  
  
From closer than Will was comfortable with, a voice spoke, low and distinct, in an accent Will couldn’t place, “Hello there. And who might you be?”  
  
“Jones. Will Jones,” Will clarified, thankful that he remembered to use his alias.  
  
Several footsteps were the only indication of the closing of distance. “Hello, Will. It is a pleasure to meet you.”  
  
“The pleasure’s all mine, sir.” Somehow, he managed to balance his nerve on the thin tightrope he’d been thrown upon.  
  
“Though I’d love to debate who is the most pleasurable company, Will, I must insist we discuss business. As I’m sure your delightful sponsor has informed you, I am fair and forgiving to my subordinates — if you obey the rules I demand of my hounds. You, Will, will become a hound, should you succeed in gaining my approval,” said the disembodied voice, spoken with calculated amusement.  
  
“I would hate to have to set my hounds on you, Will.”  
  
The words came from behind him and Will swore he felt the ghost of breath against his ear, indicating The Ripper had been close enough to touch him or to tear him apart. The thought both excited and agitated him in equal measure. As much as he tried to remain apathetic, it was difficult for the empath, who visibly flinched away from the voice that stalked him.

“My rules are simple and easy enough to follow. Do as I say,” he said, firmly, but with a certain tone of boredom that made Will wonder just how many times he’d had to recite his little speech. He continued just as mechanically casual as before. “Any disobedience, whether intentional or otherwise, will be punished with severity. And, please, don’t be foolish enough to lie to me or any member of authority within The Chesapeake Company. I _will_ discover someone’s treachery and, believe me, the consequences are not pleasant. Everyone has a misstep. Every new dog has to be trained. But there’s no cure for liars and dogs who don’t mind. Well, except the one I usually employ.” Will could practically hear the smile in his voice.  
  
The voice circled, closing in like a curious shark, sniffing for fresh blood.  
  
“Are you following, Will?”  
  
Will nodded, gentle ferocity behind the action.  
  
“Good.” A pause. “Our privacy is paramount and our information confidential; tell no one what we do here, and you will come to no harm. Above all else, _be polite_ . I find that there is nothing in this world uglier than rudeness. A mouth too brazen in its speech will soon find itself without a tongue to lash with. Do you understand, Will?”  
  
A nod seemed too noncommittal for such an agreement.  
  
“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Now that you know the basics of what is expected of the made-men within my business, I need to know, before I can count you amongst their ranks if you are a suitable candidate.”  
  
The footsteps, constant and precise until that point, stopped, and Will knew from their location that The Ripper was before him. “First, I would like for you to kneel, Will.” The way he phrased it made it sound like a friendly request, but the intent Will felt from the statement told him that the man certainly wasn’t asking.  
  
Protests and snarky comments hid underneath his tongue when he inhaled and saw nothing but red. Willingly, but reluctantly, he fell to his knees and found that the wood was cold and wet beneath them. Sightless, he was at the mercy of The Ripper.

“I will begin by asking you a series of questions, and give you adequate time to appeal to my kinder nature.” A pause and The Ripper was before him again. He felt a hand cup his chin before the boss tipped his head up, and he was forced to look up, unseeing. “Do not disappoint me, Will.”

Will was sure now that his hands were bloody, curled in the viscous fluid beneath him. It was an order, and it did not require his agreement. He had very little choice.

The Ripper continued. “If I were to ask you to kill a family member or friend, how would you do it?”  
  
Will looked up, still rendered blind, “I…” He reviewed what he’d gathered of the man. He was a dandy. He hated rudeness and did everything with an elegant flair. Surely he’d hate a boring, tasteless murder. “I’d kill them quickly- hold them as I cut their throat. I’d be merciful with someone who I knew personally and liked well enough— I’m no savage. If I valued them enough to call them a friend, I wouldn’t make them suffer, regardless of my orders. I’d be sure to take every precaution to avoid leaving damning evidence. I-...” he paused, trying to adapt himself to what he knew of The Ripper. “I’d remove their heart and replace it with a purple hyacinth, asking them forgiveness as I use them to rise higher and become more. I would leave them elevated, celebrating their end as much as I’d feel sorrow over it. It wouldn’t be ugly. I would make sure I left them... beautiful. As I saw them in life.” He whispered the word softly, with so much reverence. “Then I would take their heart, the piece I would want to keep with me, but I would give it to you. My tribute to you. Fulfilling my contract and giving all of myself to you and the Company.”  
  
There was silence for several moments, in which Will began to worry the answer was not a favourable one. Perhaps he had gone too far. Had he read the man wrong? Had he not been vicious enough? Or was it too merciful? Was it—  
  
“Very good, Will.”

If anything, The Ripper seemed to appreciate his efforts and was certainly not condemning of the twisted way with which he described his expression of love.  
  
“Violence and tastefulness are not my only demands. Loyalty is a value I treasure also. What would you do if there were a traitor in our midst?”  
  
Will waited until he was finished, and raised an eyebrow beneath his blindfold, “I’d follow them, find evidence of any kind, and bring them directly to you. I’d make an offer to be your executioner should you need one, and offer my own life if I made an error in my evaluation of their actions.”  
  
“And you continue to impress me, Will.” The Ripper’s favour sounded as if it lay with Will, though the knife could be at his throat and he would not know until he was breathing crimson.

“Finally, Will, are you prepared to kill for me?”  
  
Will hesitated, “Yes.”

“Chiyoh, could you bring her in?”  
  
“Certainly,” a new voice replied, melodic and yet so sharp in nature.

Will’s lips parted to ask a question but he was suddenly breathless, faced with a situation which he would perhaps not be able to identify due to his lack of sight. If another person was to be involved, this was a different ceremony to the ones he’d read about or what Katz had described to him. This was unpredictable.

He heard slow, cautious footsteps and knew they had company, for The Ripper would not move without intent, his footsteps precise and rhythmic to instil a mundane kind of fear. The other stranger he addressed hardly seemed at odds with the boss and had no cause for whimpering. No, another person had entered the room, breathing quickly and not making further noise.

“Will. This is someone I am also considering for the position you yourself stand able to claim. Just like you, they are a promising candidate who could prove to be a treasured member of the Company. Unfortunately, I only have space for one more at my table, so to speak. Earn your place at it.”

Will was but a bystander. The Ripper addressed their guest with comfortable ease, “I have taken his sight.”

Within his chest was a drum, beating faster as he studied the implications. Why tell his opponent that? Was it mere prodding to put more stress on him? Was he not as in the boss’ favour as he had first thought? Desperately, he clung to the hope that he could turn the situation back in his favour.  
  
“Do you swear you will be loyal to me above all else?” A voice made of steel and blood asked Will, only amusement present in the question

The answer, Will knew, would be a death sentence. “Yes,” he whispered, elevating it to a sacrament.

After his promise, a woman cried out, more desperate than his own had been, “Yes!”  
  
“Prove it to me. Kill the other. Whoever remains shall be rewarded a position in the Chesapeake Company. Begin when you please.”

Before Will could push himself to his feet, he heard footsteps fast approaching, searching. A foot against his knee was all the indication he had before she pounced like a tiger, throwing Will off balance before he could scramble to his feet. Desperately, he tried to push her off, snarling like a beast as she sank her teeth into his shoulder and tore away the skin, feral and monstrous. The searing pain brought to mind the image of red pouring out of him, throbbing muscle sending waves of heat through his body.  
  
His hands caught her long hair, curly beneath his fingers, and tore her away from him, slamming her head into the ground with a thudding noise, and she screamed, a sound which would haunt Will’s dreams for nights to come. Will barely had time to give the sickly feeling of satisfaction a moment’s notice before she had a hand around his throat, and then a second. Will was fearful then. Against the forts of his mind, which protected him from being affected too deeply by the things he regularly saw, a storm raged, the water, once dark and calm, now torrenting through him. Fear was an ocean barrage, throwing relentless attacks at his defences until they crumbled. Inside, he lay vulnerable and dangerous, like an animal backed into a corner. Will was as much captive to his own mind as he was protected by it. The scream and the consuming fear began to carve cracks in his walls.

Suddenly, a calm came over his mind, and with it the realization of his own power. Will regained control of his limbs and realised nothing was restricting his hands. He reached up, hesitating for only a moment before he felt blindly for the softest part of her face. As his thumbs pressed into her eye sockets, her grip loosened. From beneath the pads of his thumbs, he felt resistance and then a steady squishing sensation before blood escaped from her socket like tears, the drops land on his face as he continued his steady assault. Absently, Will felt a smile curve along his mouth. Her noise was less a scream and more a sob, as she clawed with nails at Will’s arms and wrists in an attempt to get him to let go. His blood was beneath her nails.  
  
She screamed and bucked her body to rid herself of Will. Will’s own vision was red, and not from staring at the insides of his eyelid, but rather from imagining how it might look if his own eyeballs were in such a destroyed state. Agony filled him. He convulsed back, breathing heavily and feeling her pain, her fear, as his own.  
  
She was persistent and used this moment of confused pain to attack him once more, landing a solid punch against his nose. Air froze in his lungs and he felt a trickling sensation run from his nose down over his parted lips. She began to slam his head into the ground, screaming and pleading for him to stop struggling, to go quietly. Will knew as well as she did that this would not earn her any sympathy.  
  
Throwing his weight to the side quickly, he managed to force her into a position of disadvantage. He felt around her face and once he had an idea of where to attack, he held her face steady and brought his fist back, slamming down with all his force into her temple. Just as planned, it seemed she’d fallen into a dazed, semi-conscious state. He slammed his fist down, again and again, trying to keep her down. He just wanted her to stop struggling, to go quietly. This was not for pleasure; this was for survival.

Will froze, realizing he’d been attacking her _as if he were her._ When she fell limp before him, Will thought he’d killed her and saw himself from her perspective again, feeling the pain as real as if he’d been struck himself. Unhinged by the perception of himself, he clambered away, putting distance between his unconscious rival.  
  
Retreating still, he backed into the boss’s trousers, freezing almost instantaneously. He moved away and crawled to his feet, using his hands to steady himself. “‘m sorry. ‘m sorry.” He shook, lost in himself, in the moment, in _her._  
  
“You have not yet finished the job, Will,” the boss observed, and Will realised with distress that his performance so far was not an impressive one. Will latched onto The Ripper, needing the cool and reserved energy liking a man dying of thirst in the desert. Calm rushed over him, giving him back his clarity and perspective. He tilted his head, listening. When he heard her panting from the severe pain he’d caused, clawing at the wood floors, _ruining the varnish_ , a lump formed in his throat. How _dare_ she cause such an unnecessary mess! She wasn’t worthy of The Ripper. What kind of animal . . .  
  
“Can I have a knife?” Will asked in a quiet voice, calming his breaths and evening himself into something closer to resembling a killer.

A hand cupped his own, drawing it up, foreign fingers brushing along his knuckles as they indicated where they should be. A small knife was slipped into his palm, the man’s other hand curling Will’s fingers around the handle, choosing him to be his champion. Will gripped the weapon tight, accepting his boss’s will. The fingers slipped away, a last lingering caress, letting Will know how truly pleased he’d made him. Pride and strength surged through Will at the approval.  
  
“Thank you, sir”  
  
Will crawled over to her body, still breathing laboured, pained breaths, scratching at the ground with bloodied nails and attempting to strike at Will when he straddled her legs, pinning her effectively down, like a skittish doe. He was not his opponent. He was not Will Jones. He was not Will Graham. He was The Ripper, if only for a moment.  
  
He clutched the knife his hand and splayed the other over her chest, pressing the tip of the knife in swiftly and pulling down, just as he might gut a fish back home.

He heard more than felt flesh tear, slowly, and heard ichor escape, hot and heady and hapless, unable to return to the body to which its presence was vital. His competition began to choke on it, and a worm of satisfaction emerged from his mind at the sound. Will’s lips parted, breaths shallow and panicked and euphoric. Across his face, he felt heat spray and stain, and although he should have been repulsed, crying has her pain became his own, Will found himself more alive under the gore of death than he knew was good and proper. He hoped it was a result of the tether he’d formed to Hannibal’s barricaded mind and nothing more.

As the last breath left the woman, Will leaned forwards, trying with difficulty to breathe in through molten lungs. He did not stop in his pursuit.

Footsteps, once again, came from behind, making no attempt at stealth. “You have done well.” The Ripper praised.  
  
Will’s senses came back to him one by one by one, and each time, he wanted to empty his stomach to rid himself of the horribly intoxicating sensation once again. First, his smell returned and he could smell nothing but iron and ichor, poisonous and sweet. Next, Will tasted her blood and his own on his tongue and felt that he was drowning in it rather than his competitor, choking on the aftermath of violence.  
  
It was not yet over. Will’s eyebrows furrowed together as he dropped the knife, allowing it to clatter to the ground beside him, loud as wrath in this room so bloody. He reached into her chest with his crimson hands, tearing the meat apart and pulling apart her ribs until Will imagined she more closely resembled a butterfly than a woman.  
  
His hand curled around his prize, and he cut the veins and arteries that kept her heart pumping her blood. To his terror, he thought he felt a faint heartbeat, and it got stronger until it was a drumming symphony.

When he pulled his hands from what used to be a living being, nested within them was the searing warmth of something soft. Between his fingers, viscous fluid coiled, snaking down his wrists and parting with him at his elbow. Blood, possessive.  
  
Will’s head was water, and he was falling beneath, drowning. Being even within the presence of this man had him clawing his way to the surface of waters stormy which were usually so calm and easy to float above. The Ripper’s approval seemed more important than survival.  
  
With renewed ardour, Will rose his chin to look upon The Ripper proudly, without the use of his eyes to see his reaction. Will was determined to surprise the man who seemed disturbed by nothing he did. Slowly, he brought the heart— knowing it was still but his hands insisted it still beat within them— to his mouth, smearing carmine on his face. Lips parting, he bit down with savagery, nails and fingers pressing indents to the muscle. More blood poured down his forearms, as wasted as wine when the glass is dropped and shattered on the floor. Teeth dug into the tough flesh, and Will wrenched his head back, meat clenched between incisors.  
  
Tenderly, with a timidness unbefitting of such carnage, Will Graham swallowed, the taste of iron still on his tongue.  
  
“I swear on my heart,” Will recited, “And I offer you hers.”  
  
“Dear Will…” The Ripper, a man so articulate whose very presence had men and women alike on their knees and praying for grace and virtuous pity, seemed genuinely taken aback and endeared by the display of devotion, “You are something extraordinary.” From his hands, Hannibal took the heart, and (since Will did not hear a damp, dull sound befitting of a heart hitting a solid surface) placed it somewhere with care.

His sight, he expected, would not be returned to him.  
  
Will was wrong.  
  
Efficient fingers pulled loose the knot securing the blindfold over his face from behind and allowed the fabric to fall around his neck, noose-like in nature and twice as damning. For a long moment, Will refused to open his eyes— refused to bear witness to the savagery of his own creation. Until, of course, he could no longer restrain the desire to see his own design.  
  
Once his eyes opened, and he turned his head a fraction, firm hands held his head so he could stare only forwards. Tenderly, the hands which held him in a vice-like grip, which had torn apart men and women and made corpses his medium for art, began to stroke his curls, keeping them from his face and providing a source of comfort all at once.  
  
“Do you see what you have done, Will?” He declared, less a question than a show of admiration, “Her name was Reba McClane, a woman who had been denied of sight by different means than you.”  
  
“She was…?”  
  
“Yes.”

“And I…”  
  
“You did what you thought would give you advantage. Nothing more, nothing less. Just survival. Do not blame yourself for things you could not have known.”  
  
Will made a sound of abject horror and felt suddenly very sick. She had been blind and Will had crushed her eyes in her skull.  
  
“She was a traitor, Will. She revealed my secrets to an unknown man whom I believe has ill-intentioned ambitions for me. I gave her a chance at redemption. A final trial, if you will. You can see the outcome. It is as much a result of her own treachery as it is your might. Do not be ashamed of your strength, Will.”  
  
“My strength is terrifying,” Will whispered, his voice breaking as he confessed as a sinner might in a Catholic church.

If Will could hear smiles, he was certain one would be gracing The Ripper’s unknown features. He heard footsteps leave him, and he straightened as if he’d been flogged, reminded of the earlier warning never to speak out of turn. The blindfold was returned to his face.

When he returned, Will flinched away when something touched his face, skittish now and frightened by his own actions. The Ripper persisted, washing the blood from his face with uncharacteristic tenderness. Will did not dare to lean into or away from the touch. When his face was cleaned sufficiently, and half-dried blood did not stain his lips, Will was assisted to his feet.  
  
“Will, I think you’ve earned the right to know me by name. Usually, I’d refrain from showing my face or revealing my name to those who I have known for short periods of time. You have proved an exceptional case- in more ways than one.”  
  
Will waited, breath trapped in his chest as if God had seen fit to strike him dead for eating his fellow man.  
  
He heard footsteps behind him, and flinched, but relaxed more than he should have when a thick coat was wrapped around him from behind and a coat was settled upon his shoulders, concealing his bloody shirt. Words were whispered into his ear, intimate and private. “My name is Hannibal. Use it sparingly, and never in the company of others,” The voice— Hannibal— commanded and so it was.  
  
“Yes, sir.”

 

* * *

 

The drive back to the apartment Will had been given for the operation was silent, and Beverly did not ask if he was okay. Both of them knew he could not be. Neither tried to engage in conversation, and the ride went by in a haze of confused bliss. Will was hardly present and totally unable to process the actions and promises he’d made to a man who could have his head removed and placed upon a platter at any given point in the day. Though, he was unsure if his brain would make a palatable mean for Hannibal, whose standards exceeded ordinary expectation.

“Thank you, Bev. For the ride.” He managed, as he closed the door behind him without waiting for the exchange of niceties. It was rude, and Will savoured the distaste with which his new boss would regard that.  
  
Will forwent the use of the elevator- tight, confined spaces in which he was trapped seemed not a favourable situation to place himself in. Instead, he walked with measured rhythm up the endless flights of stairs until he reached the space he would call home for the next few months. Indulgent, but not overly so.  
  
Completely sterile, like some kind of showhome. Will missed his dogs.

Thoughts of home, bittersweet, like the memory of childhood, were interrupted by a forceful sensation, and Will blundered through the foreign territory, far past enemy lines, to reach a bathroom. Immediately, Will was sick in the toilet. Seeing the horrors of others through the killers’ eyes was not as terrifying as being the killer it seemed. Worst of all, he’d enjoyed the gore and the artfulness and tenderness of the act. Being covered in blood felt like fire across his skin, but he did not burn. Coiled still was the pleasure of it all, sat low in his chest, heavy and elevating. He could feel eyes watching him, even though he could not see them, and he felt seen in a way he had never before.  
  
After emptying the contents of his stomach, Will tore off the clothes which were still bloodsoaked, considering the coat Hannibal had given him. He folded it and set aside, endeavouring to give it back later. Stepping under the punishing heat of the water, he scrubbed meticulously, water pink with blood and skin rubbed raw and sensitive. Desperately, he wanted the memory of Franklyn banished to the remnants of his subconscious. In an attempt to rid him from, at the very least, the evidence of his acts, he scrubbed every inch of his skin with ferociousness.  
  
Once he was satisfied that his skin matched the hue of blood, but was free of the substance, Will wandered through the hospital-like corridors, decorated though free of personality. Finding the bedroom, he drew the curtains to block out the sun, still making it’s weary decent past the horizon. Will took the phone from a false-bottomed bedside drawer, thumbing at it cautiously for several moments. Flipping the simple device open, he composed a message to the only contact.  
  
**[ To: UNKNOWN ]** Jack, I hope your day was better than mine. I got the job, just as you asked. I start tomorrow.  
  
After Will sent the simple, cynical message, he removed the SIM, tore it in two, and laid down to rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Every comment, kudo and bookmark means so much to me and motivates me to keep writing! Again, thank you!
> 
> Feel free to visit my [Tumblr](https://pxperboats-writing.tumblr.com/) if you'd like. I'm open to prompts at the moment too!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This chapter contains some descriptions of abuse, some more graphic than others. If you feel that this would be triggering or do not feel comfortable reading it, the notes at the end describe the important advances in the plot so you can continue to read this uninhibited. :)

_Drip, drip, drip._

_Blood fell, heavier than rocks, and Will stood, powerful. He was inflamed. Not even he could comprehend whether the blood— the carmine smeared across his face— was his own. Hot and demanding was the creature inside him, horned and vicious. Screaming bloody commands he intended to fulfil. In his ears, a creature of murder and creation screamed, “Blood will have blood.” Will agreed._

_Thump, thump, thump._

_Across his skin, lashes hit and left welts in their wake. Curled up small, sobbing, Will could do nothing to prevent the onslaught of violence inflicted unto him. He begged and begged and begged for mercy and tried desperately to escape, but was caught by the wrist and twisted, held in place. No army or peacemaker would help him; no one would fight this fight for him, nor offer him an escape. Will Graham was trapped here._

_Knock, knock, knock._

_Knife clutched in bloody, shaking hands, Will stood and then fell, legs barely able to support his frail body as he sobbed and cried. He crawled to the body’s side and tried to wake it, shaking it tentatively. Will was certain it would not wake (he’d already lived this, after all)— but the corpse began to convulse and rise, mouth gaping and hands gripping Will’s arms, dragging him through the blood on the floor and drowning him as he gasped for—_

With a start, Will awoke and was blinded by visions of red. The knocking did not cease. Will realised then, suddenly, that the knocking had not been a product of his active imagination. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he clawed his way out of bed. He managed to get tangled in the sweat-soaked sheets which clung to his skin, attempting to drag him fighting back to nightmares of red. He did not surrender and managed to escape the sheets.

Pulling on a t-shirt he found in one of the drawers— one provided by the gracious organisation that had tried and failed to make this place look like a home— he made his way to the door. From the other side, he heard the frustrated mumblings of his friend and mob patron.

More banging ensued upon the door. “Will, you better open this door right now, or God help you, I will—”

Will opened the door as Beverly abrupted stopped her shouts, fist still held in the air to attack the door again. “Good morning, Beverly, it’s lovely to see you too,” Will replied flatly, a grin curling the corners of his lips.

“Yeah, yeah, you too. I have questions for you, ‘Mr Jones’,” she said, rolling her eyes and stepping into the apartment. She shrugged off her coat and kicked off her shoes, finding her way to the pristine sofa and collapsing comfortably onto it.

“By all means, make yourself at home,” Will teased, before sitting in the armchair, finding it most like the one he’d had at home, watching the fire with his dogs curled up in front of it, warm and safe and free of anger and blood.

“So?” Will asked, cocking his head and lifting his chin, casting his gaze over Beverly’s shoulder.

“So, how’d it go? He doesn’t suspect you, does he? God, Will, do you realise how much I’m putting on the line for you? If you show even the slightest crack in your persona, he’s going to tear you open and eat you alive— literally and metaphorically.”

“It went fine. It... It went horribly? I’m not sure how to describe it, honestly. It went nothing like the way I expected it to. There was no ‘prick-your-finger-and-burn-a-saint’ bullshit. It was brutal, Bev,” Will put his head in his hands, certain he was smearing Reba’s blood on his face but shielding the horror from his expression. Beverly could not see his design.

“Did he suspect anything?”

“No. He seemed— impressed? I didn’t see him. He sounded impressed- or I imagined he did,” Will managed, barely able to think back on the day before. The Devil had visited Earth and lived in him.

“Good… Good,” Beverly breathed, visibly relieved.

Will hesitated, knowing it was a risk to ask about Beverly’s betrayal of The Chesapeake Company, “Why did you pick me, Beverly? You know what I am. What I plan to do.”

“Yes, I do. I only hope you do it well, otherwise, it’ll be off with your head— and mine.”

A moment stretched between them. “What aren’t you telling me?” Will asked, indignant but he hid that he had vague ideas. He could not read her history on her face and in her mannerisms, though he knew her anger, her drive for revenge, her loss, her anguish, her fear. In his mind's eye, he saw an eagle curling talons around a woman, old and frail, and dragging her high into the sky, above the trees and the clouds and the sun, flesh seared and blistered.

She was silent for a while before she leaned forwards. “It’s a personal issue. A family issue. I don’t want to talk about it any further. Maybe— when all this crap is behind us—I will tell you the sad story of poor Beverly Katz’s life, but for now, this is business.

“The boss has an assignment for you. Let’s hope it’s something forgiving. Go, get dressed. We need to meet him at 9,” Beverly gestured towards the corridor which led to his bedroom, and Will stood, leaving quietly. He thought himself justified in his interrogation, though he still felt guilty for it.

Choosing the right clothes to impress a mob boss would have been hard if he’d had all the flannels and jeans he used to wear at home in his wardrobe. Inside the mostly barren space were a number of bespoke suits, zipped up like corpses in a morgue, protected by a dust cover to keep them in pristine condition. Crawford overlooked very little in this operation. After all, Will was his only chance to have Hannibal— The Ripper— in handcuffs, or, as Will knew Jack would prefer (though would never admit), dead.

When Will emerged, tastefully dressed though not arrogantly so, he shrugged on a long black coat and a pair of boots, and Beverly raised an eyebrow, smiling. “Wow, Will. You clean up nicely. A change from where I found you in that hovel of yours. Covered in dog hairs and looking like death himself.” Will didn’t reply, concerned by how easily he was changing. Will Graham, nervous, unofficial agent and hermit, living with only his loyal pack for company was quickly becoming Will Jones, killer and hound, useful only for hunting.

“Alright, alright, fine. Let’s go. We wouldn’t want to disappoint The Ripper, would we?”

“No. No, we would not,” Will replied, and he meant it. He cast his mind back to pictures of crime scenes, malevolent and judging, and knew that disappointing the Ripper was the last thing many people did.

 

* * *

 

The car ride to god-knows-where to do god-knows-what had Will more anxious than when he knew where they were going and what was to occur there. At least then he had been prepared for the wrath and terror he had witnessed through sound, sense and imagination alone. Today— and every day in the future for that matter— was a mystery to Will. He was to be on the defensive, unsure if he would be discovered, like a fly trapped in a spider’s web, unwilling to move for fear he would send vibrations along the fragile threads.

Beverly, on the other hand, seemed celebratory. She did not seem to understand that, though Will may have been allowed through the figurative gates of the estate, there were still hounds in the driveway, and men with guns watching through the windows. Blaring through the radio was a Blondie song Will had heard before, and Beverly seemed content to murmur the words beneath her breath, body swaying slightly in a way she didn’t think Will would see.

“One way, or another, I’m gonna find ya, I’m gonna get ya, get ya, get ya!” She became less discreet in her singing and dancing, passionate now.

Will was content to tune her out.

When the car came to a slow stop, Beverly flashed him a grin. They were not at the cliffside house that The Chesapeake Company had made use of for initiation of new recruits; it was far too removed from the epicentre of their criminal activity to be a central base of operations for the Company. Always one for dramatics, the meeting was scheduled at a gothic church in Baltimore, with spires reaching for heaven like the hand of Adam. The comparison between the acts of violence committed by The Ripper and the supposed benevolence of God was a prospect Will did not wish to consider. God, of course, flooded the earth and killed those he deemed unworthy. Didn’t man have permission, therefore, to lead by example?

Thoughts of Judas and Jesus pestered his mind as he climbed the stairs to the grand structure, decorated with saints and glass, stained with red and other morbid hues. He wondered who he would be remembered as in the files of the FBI: traitor or messiah.

Waiting at the top of the ascent was a disciple of the devil. Against the background of dark stone and wooden doorways, intricate in their design but their material simple and deceptively luxurious, the woman stood out like an angel, though Will knew she was not. Blonde hair curled across her shoulder, a snake hiding in the golden depths. She was more akin to Eve than to Mary Mandolin. She was unlike Beverly and Hannibal, for the manipulation she specialised in was not that of flesh, but rather of the mind. She whispered words in the ears of the volatile and the powerful to accomplish her own aims. Will watched as a man, hearing the words of this woman, poured gasoline over himself and lit himself aflame, screaming but never moving to put out the inferno. Words were a powerful weapon to wield. Of this woman, Will Graham did not wish to make an enemy.

“Beverly, it’s good to see you again. I should think congratulations are in order; our mutual friend seems enamoured by the talent you have brought to his attention,” Her scrutiny left Beverly and she observed Will thoroughly, whilst he looked at her defined cheeks, avoiding the blue eyes which were clearly searching for a way to dissect him, “Will Jones, I presume? My name is Bedelia Du Maurier. I handle the boss’ business when he is otherwise occupied.”

Will nodded, pulling the coat tighter around his body to defend against the cold autumn which knifed him, “And that involves the distribution of assignments?”

“Usually, yes. However, the boss hand-picked this one, just for you.”

Beverly raised an eyebrow, curious as a cat, and turned to Will, “Did he? What an honour.”

Will did not feel as if he was being honoured. Rather, he was being taunted, chasing his tail and following ghosts, unsure of what exactly Hannibal had in mind for him.

Bedelia handed him a small file with a name printed on the front: his target’s name, he presumed. It contained several sheets of paper, which Will would read thoroughly later whilst preparing himself for whatever the mob expected him to do. Bedelia caught his gaze for a fraction of a moment when he looked up from the discreet death sentence he’d been handed and was to carry out.

“Will. You have The Ripper’s attention. Be careful. I would not wish to see another end up like the previous prodigies who have failed to live up to his high expectations,” she warned, sharp truth to her words, though something more lingered behind her eyes. A cunning, a manipulation that Will could not place.

“It was… interesting to meet the one who Hannibal has been so infatuated with. He won’t tell me why he likes you so. I hope, for your sake and his, that you do not disappoint him now,” Bedelia said, smooth and harsh like a kiss followed by a slap across the cheek. She turned on her stiletto heel, and walked down the steps, climbing into a car, accompanied by two men — presumably from The Chesapeake Company. She was as high in status as she claimed then, if she was protected so heavily. Or perhaps she was as a captive, as most people who worked for the Company were.

Beverly had more questions now than when she stormed into his apartment, angry and worried and frustrated. Her eyes were asking him what the fuck he did, how the fuck he’d done it, and if he could do it again but she had the respect not to ask her questions aloud. “C’mon. You can look through the file in the car. I know a place we can go to talk privately.”

The place in question, it turned out, was a small restaurant that looked more like Will’s original idea of what a mafia headquarters would look like. This seemed, however, to be a mockery of the elegance and sophistication which Hannibal expected and operated with. Instead, the place was flooded with red light and cigarette smoke and smelt distinctly of blood and alcohol. At the smell, Will recoiled and his lip curled slightly in displeasure.

The whole place was an attempt to pay homage to the famed leader of the Chesapeake Company; even so, Hannibal would look severely out of place here. Despite his violence and concealed nature, the grace with which he acted and surrounded himself with was, at the very least, genuine. This was indiscreetly false.

Regardless, Beverly seemed to favour the establishment, despite it being filled so obviously with the Company’s men. Will allowed himself to be hauled inside, parting the smoke as he went, thick with addiction. File tucked securely under his arm, he allowed Beverly to lead him through the throngs of men, guns and knives wielded by nearly every man in the place. More than once, he glimpsed unsavoury activities taking place in dark corners and private booths— similar to the one Beverly was leading him to. Red and comfortable, despite the tears in the fabric, revealing a soft underbelly.

In the darkness, in the company of criminals, Will was more certain that no one would notice the file, nor care to ask questions. He didn’t have to worry about undercover agents either. None but he could make it past the front door.

Tucked inside the file was a small square of paper, decorated by an intricate border, which fell out onto the table as he delved into the information spread upon the sheets. In a neat cursive script, it read:

 

 

> _'Dear WIll,_
> 
> _I hope you’ll forgive my inability to give you your very first assignment in person. It is perhaps more difficult than those I’d usually assign to most new recruits; however, I believe this work to be already beneath you. I have confidence that you will be fully capable of completing it with ease. I look forward to news of your accomplishment._
> 
> _From H.’_

Despite himself, Will smiled, before he stifled the expression with surprise that it had occurred to begin with. Maybe Bedelia Du Maurier was not so wrong about Hannibal’s curiosity. Still, Will had not expected The Ripper to become so interested so quickly. Before Beverly could see the note, Will slid it into his pocket with a dexterous movement, confused by his own desire to keep the note private. Beverly was the closest thing he had to a friend, and yet something intrinsic told him to hide it.

Pushing all thoughts of the note into the dark corners of his mind, Will instead spread the other sheets across the table, decorating it with declarations of murder and money. It seemed, disregarding its patent for murder and crime, The Company was more organised and upstanding than most. Its methods were more filled with vice, but they were at least more direct than those of lawyers and liars.

The information was simple enough: the target was a 39-year-old male, known as Christopher Brown. The Chesapeake Company had been hired to kill him by his ex-wife, in the event she were to pass away and the custody of their son went to her husband. Though she was deceased, she’d paid $10,000 in advance and the Company was nothing if not honourable. An address was listed below, and the file contained several photographs of the man, provided by the client.

If Will were a weaker man, he’d have spilt the contents of his stomach onto the table with dread and fear and panic. Yesterday he’d eaten a person’s heart; now, he’d have to kill another. There was no escalation, and yet Will would be fully responsible for the death to follow— not Hannibal. He was not coerced or forced into this. This would be blood upon his hands and his alone.

“Can I get you folks anything to drink?” asked a chipper waitress, dressed in black with a gleam of something wicked in her eyes. He figured he’d need more than a couple drinks, but he refrained.

Will ordered two fingers of Whiskey and began to plan, in a daze and under the heavy weight of the bosses expectations and the effort of maintaining a charade.

 

* * *

 

Stalking prey, as it turned out, was a game best played by the patient and the cautious. Will was neither.

Jittery and nervous, Will laid in the undergrowth of the garden and observed the house in which his target lived in, watching through windows and making a note of any significant event. Considering they lived in a suburban house, it was no stretch to assume nothing of significance happened that night, or on any other. The only thing of note was that, whilst most of the neighbours were asleep by so late at night, the lights in the targets house had gone off and then come on once again after 11 at night. From this distance, Will could hear no noise.

Until he heard a cry for help, unanswered, and something he’d thought long dead resurfaced and screamed.

Will’s father had been an engineer, but not one of extraordinary talent. He had devoted all his passion and energy into the crude jobs he’d been given. When Will’s mother left, this passion dissolved into anger and, for a time, Will was protected from it by the work his father did, because he was barely home, and exhausted from work the few times he was. When no more jobs were available, Will’s father no longer had an outlet for the anger that coiled, as fierce as a lion and with the force of a hurricane, tearing apart everything indiscriminately.

Unfortunately, Will was an obstacle to the unrelenting rage of his father. He had so many scars to prove it. Teachers showed little regard or concern in his small community and thought his words only the pedanticness of a child who did not understand discipline. Once, he’d dared to call the police who had made a call at the house to investigate a disturbance, but only asked his father if all was well and did precious little to help him. Armed with the knowledge that no one would help him, Will had solved the problem himself in ways less diplomatic.

How he longed for help. How he longed for a saviour to take him away from that little home in Louisiana, to a place where suffering was a myth.

Storming from his hiding place now, Will’s travelled like a rumour through the unmowed grass, thick with brambles and weeds, like those which tore at his mind, and made his way onto the shoddily built porch. A rusty chair sat next to a rustier table beside the door, another chair knocked to the ground and ensnared in green. He did not do the occupants of the house the courtesy of knocking.

Will put all his force into a swift kick to the lock mechanism and splintered the door as it came swinging open for him, some invisible force beckoning him softly inside. It was much like the fire in his warm house after travelling for hours through the biting cold, wolves nipping at his ankles encouragingly.

He was welcomed inside by the promise of blood, but the scene before him struck him like so much ice.

Cowering, lip curled with fear and anger which laid beneath it, like the snake which laid in wait, was a young boy. He couldn’t be older than 14. Bruised and beaten, his eyes were blackened and angry. Will remembered vividly being so young and so afraid and so wrathful. He knew the memories of childhood would haunt him for the rest of his life, no matter what horrors he’d seen in adult life. He dissolved into them, drowning in the deep waters of memory. Memories became reality. The lines between the two blurred.

_“William. Where have you been?”_

_“Down by the river with Tommy and Robin. Made sure to be back on time,” Will’s hands were cleaner now, though mud still covered his clothes._

_“What time did I say to be back for?”_

_“You… you said to be back for five thirty…”_

_“What time is it, William?”_

_“‘m only ten minutes late, dad…”_

_“Are you talking back to me, Will?” He bellowed, and Will took several steps back as his father approached, cutting an imposing figure in the doorway. “Obviously, I haven’t been disciplining you well enough, boy.” He’d been so very angry since Will’s mother had left. Will had begged him to stop. Tried as best as he could to be good. Seemed it would never be good enough._

_He’d been grabbed by the wrist then and torn from safety, crying as his father had dragged him to the living room, which only seemed to add gasoline to the fiery rage of the man. Will had tripped on muddied feet, still went from river water, a remnant of the time he’d spent laughing with his friends. He had enough sense not to try to resist his father, as he’d learned the first time that it only ever made things worse for him._

“What the fuck are you doing in my house?” his father accused before he realised that the man before him was not his father, but was wearing his anger like a mask. He could only see his father before him, dead-eyed and bloody.

_“Please stop, dad! Please!” Will had cried, curled up on the kitchen floor as his father's boot hit his body once, twice, twenty times. After a while, Will lost count. His nose was broken, he was sure, and his body was riddled with bruises left in the wake of that boot._

_“Thought you could defy me, did you?” his father roared a false lion. “Thought you were better than me— just like your fucking whore of a mother!” Will knew why he was acting the way he was. He could see it in his eyes, in the angry snarl, like some hurt, rabid dog. His mother had left them with very little warning after Will’s father had started drinking and wouldn’t stop._

_As the fist, hot and hellish, struck his cheek, tearing a cry from Will’s throat, he looked into his father’s eyes and saw horrors that made him soft with pity. He saw tears running down dry cheeks in the depths of his mind; he saw fish hooks threaded through his chest, tearing him wide open as he screamed bloody murder and mercy, mercy; he saw his father strangling the man who’d taken his wife from him and then strangling her in turn._

His eyes turned outwards once again, returned to the kitchen where the boy laid quivering, like a snake shedding its skin and revealing flesh and muscle and fingers. Teeth glistened from beneath the thin skin. Will tore his empathetic gaze away to meet the eyes of a man who much resembled his father.

He took a step back, intimidated at once by the familiar mix of anger and grief that scarred itself like a brand upon his skin. When he was a child, he may have submitted to the anger and allowed himself to drown underneath it, knowing he would never, no matter how much he begged, be killed by the rage.

He was not a child anymore.

The anger that was his own at the way his father treated him and the way this child was being treated, combined with the anger of the father, brought a snarl to his face. He stepped forward with the intent to kill.  
  
_“Will.”_

His father’s voice ran through him like the current from an electric chair, tying him in place more effectively that leather straps or metal chains. The opening he provided did not go unnoticed, and his wrist was twisted, forcing the knife from his hand. Will cried out, but he did not hear it. His mind only heard laughter and the ring of metal on wood.

Will’s eyes were wide and, like a sinking boat in the ocean, filled with water and emotion which was leached from the boy. Anger became stifled by fear and terror.

_“You’re no son of mine.”_

Will barely evaded when the man lunged at him with the viciousness of a rabid dog, cursing his very being, slashing with the knife fated for the abuser’s chest. When a second swing cut through the space between them, the snarling, wicked man met his mark, and the knife lodged itself into Will’s shoulder before pulling free. He turned to address his quarry turned wild, eyes wide and panicked, as the window shattered from behind him and the very mundane kitchen had become a vacuum. Air was a memory. The boy still shivered, some traumatised creature, between fear and violence.

In the man’s forehead, between his rolling eyes, was an absence of flesh and bone and brain. Something had burrowed inside, like a tapeworm beneath the skin but deadly, and made of lead. For many long moments, Will was confused. He didn’t have a gun on him, and the child still quivered beneath the table, unarmed.

Then, with electric terror, he realised. He’d failed.

His first assignment and he’d _failed._

The knife in the man’s hand fell to the ground as he fell backwards, limp and helpless. Will looked at the young boy and his child’s mind consumed Will’s own in his terror, frozen, like amber around his brain. He took the knife from the ground and screamed, burying the knife repeatedly into the dead man’s chest.

He’d been here before.

_He hadn’t meant to kill him. Will knew he had done something wrong, and yet felt some relief over the pause in the punishment his father gave him._

He hadn’t killed him. Will knew he had done the right thing, and yet felt no relief, as he knew there would be punishments for his hesitation.

_The residue of the anger and pain and fear still lingered and Will, past sympathy, reached blindly for the knife he’d dropped and begun to cry, bringing the knife down into his chest, red covering his face and his hands, as real as a metaphor. The warmth was comforting. He didn’t have to think about policemen and consequences whilst blood sang to him, sweet and soft. He brought the knife down again, and again, and again._

The anger and pain and fear from the little boy were still present, and Will sympathised with him almost as much as he empathised. He resolved to do what the boy was too fearful to. Prying the knife from the fist of the dead man, he brought it above his head drove it down into his chest, covering his hands and face in red warmth so familiar. The warmth was comforting. He didn’t have to think about crime syndicates and undercover detectives whilst blood screamed a crimson chorus in his head. He brought the knife down again, and again, and again.

_He was alone for several weeks before they found him._

Will released very suddenly that he wasn’t alone.

Cutting a clean figure in the doorway was a woman of lithe proportions, holding a gun that seemed almost as big as her. She was but a shadow, though Will recognised her voice when she spoke.

“A disappointing performance in contrast to your earlier one. Hannibal will be interested in your explanation, I’m sure.”

She waited for him to stand before crouching over the corpse. The voice was one he recognised, albeit vaguely. Chiyoh, she'd been called.

“And you ruined the meat.”

Will wanted to ask questions but held his tongue, knowing that he was in a position of vast disadvantage. She stood, taking the bloody knife from his hands and tossing it onto the floor. The boy beneath the table froze, still frightened and angry with both his abuser and the invading force. The knife stopped at his feet, though he did not reach for it. He snarled at Will when he moved to approach.

“Will, we need to go. Beverly will handle the cleanup. The boy won’t be harmed. Hannibal is waiting for us, and it would be rude to be late.”

Reluctantly, Will took several steps away from the crime scene of his own creation, away from his design, and left the boy a sobbing, terrified wretch. Trying his very best not to hyperventilate, he climbed into the black sedan with the armed woman at his flank, untrusting and apathetic.

In the lavish interior of the car, Will tore himself apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beverly comes to Will's apartment. Will dresses dapper and they leave to meet Bedelia at a church. Here, Will is given his first assignment. Beverly and Will visit a mafia bar together. He then goes to kill the man he was assigned to but freezes when he sees the man abusing his son. This triggers a flashback. Will, thrown off, fails to kill the man and is injured in the process. The man is shot by Chiyoh, who has been waiting outside. She enters and reveals Hannibal has invited Will to dinner. He is guided to a car and is, presumably, on his way to dine in style.
> 
> Feel free to visit my [Tumblr](https://pxperboats-writing.tumblr.com/)! Ask me any questions, send me some prompts, gaze in awe at all the hannigram i reblog and motivate me to write more than I already do!!


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